Atrum Venom
by xxlostdreamerxz
Summary: What if a Dark Harry from another dimension was recarnated into his one year old self?
1. Chapter 1

**Atrum Venom**

**By:** xxlostdreamerx

**Disclaimer:** No, I do not own HP.

**A/N:** Now, haven't we all read and love those fics where Harry, the o' so golden hero, is sent back in time or to an alternate dimension? The kind where Harry's all _noble_ and that rot. _Clichéd_, no? Well, here's a new an improved spin to top that age of theory of dimension and time travel. Pre-HBP.

**Summary:** What if from a distant dimension, one Harry Potter - the heir and key enforcer of the Dark Lord, is sent into the HP world that we know and love? No Slash.

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**Ch 1: Lost Dream**

_Revenge is best served cold..._

* * *

_Danger._

He could feel it in his bones - the deep biting chill of anticipation and fear. Danger was like second nature to him. It was his friend, his only constant companion. Harry's lips curled into a feral smile. And by the gods did he love it!

The thrill of putting his life on the line was...intoxicating, to say the least. There was no time for second thoughts, no time for regrets, or what ifs. It was a life lived only by the crème de crème of the Dark Lords inner circle. It was a life that Harry had taken upon himself without a moment of hesitation.

It was also, he grimaced, a life on the road.

In his whole thirteen years as the Dark Lord's prized protégé, Harry had never spent more than a week tops in the same region. He was always on the move - may it be from capturing Order members, spying, or collecting rare magical artifacts for his Master.

Harry's lips curled. Though, he had to admit, the benefits outweighed the bad.

"M'lord, t-the Ministry is awaiting your presence," stuttered one of his inner circle Death Eaters, as he looked down at the ground purposely to avoid meeting Harry's eyes. "They have just surrendered and are waiting for your the terms."

The eighteen year old raised a mocking eyebrow. "The entire lot of them are fools," he said scornfully. "They offer me nothing and yet they dare demand my presence?"

The Death Eater trembled beneath the boy's icy emerald green glare. The Dark Lord's heir was cruel beyond belief, so much that he could scare his very own subordinates with just a glance. The Death Eater shivered once again. It was often said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. But...if such a notion proved true, then the boy _was_ soulless. Even the most skilled interrogator couldn't detect even a flicker of emotion in the boy's eyes.

They were frozen and dead.

As much as he loathed to admit it, but the boy scared him more than the Dark Lord. Heir or no, it was common knowledge among the Death Eater ranks that the Potter boy was stronger than Voldemort in both skill and power. What puzzled him to no end was _why_ the Potter boy had yet to destroy his mentor and take his place as the leader of the wizarding world. The boy was strong enough, yes. But did the boy possess enough inner strength to murderer the only closest thing he had to a parent?

"Kill them," the boy ordered emotionlessly, his eyes never once wavering. "Tonight will be our lord's final victory against the Light," he announced sounding slightly bored, "Take no prisoners. Kill everyone on sight." Harry paused for a moment as he reaching a decision. "And if you so wish, torture them."

The squad of Death Eaters bowed deeply to Harry, before marching off towards the towering building abet a bit hastily. After all, torturing Mudblood was of course preferable to staying with the cold-blooded heir.

Harry rolled his eyes as he heard the beginnings of a bloodcurdling scream. 'Fucking fools,' he spat in disgust. 'Couldn't they be a bit more quiet?' Slowly making his way through the hall of mutilated bodies, Harry was stopped by a bloodied hand tugging on his robes.

"H-Help m-me..." whispered the child imploringly, as he stared up at Harry with trusting golden brown eyes. "H-Hurts..."

Harry's lips curled into a sneer. "Filth," he spat darkly, as he pulled his robes away from the child's grasp. Making sure to step on the child's hand, which elicited a scream of pain, Harry continued his journey. The child was going to die sooner or later. No point wasting a curse on the dead.

_"Sing to me my sweet, the light shall protect you when all is lost."_

Something flickered in his chest, causing his heart to beat faster. Harry snarled as the twinge of guilt and conscience tickled the very corners of his mind. Ah, _he_ would have been so disappointed to see Harry as he was right now- reduced to nothing but a heartless murderer.

_"Fight until your last dying breath. Do not give up. Promise me..."_

Harry harshly shoved aside his thoughts. There was not point dwelling upon the past, for there is no spell that could wake the dead. And, he added, he didn't want to face his old protector again - he didn't want to see disappointment or even hatred in the man's face.

It...would hurt. _Terribly so._

And that was what Harry hated about the entire affair. He did not want to feel. According to the Dark Lord, emotions made you weak. Emotions would confused and hound you until your dying day, for there _was_ no escape for such emotional people. And over time, he concluded, such feelings of guilt and pain would eventually swallow you whole.

Harry's eyebrow twitched in annoyance, as he quickened his pace. Now was not the time to dwell on such things. He had a mission to accomplish. He took a deep breath and released it, all the while focusing on his mind. It was a mess, so to speak. He had neglected to sort his memory over the past month due to all his reminiscing about the past. But now, he needed to calm down.

With years of practice, in an instant Harry sharpened his mind, focusing upon only the mission at hand. And with it, his doubts and emotions disappeared allowing him to focus upon his task.

A task that involved the infiltration of the Departments of Mysteries for _the_ secret weapon - code name: L.O.V.E. Harry's lips curled into a disdainful sneer at the name. Couldn't the Light come up with something that even bordered upon originality?

Doubtful.

Especially with the eccentric Aberforth Dumbledore in charge of the Order of Phoenix. The old man was...strange, crazy for the matter. After all, who in their right mind would dare openly challenge the Dark Lord and expect to survive? Defeater of the Dark Lord Grindelwald or no, Aberforth Dumbledore was by no means capable of handling the might of the Dark Lord.

Though Harry had to admit, had the elder Dumbledore been a few decades younger, he might have been able to give Voldemort a run for his money. But alas, fate had an annoying tendency to show up and kick your ass when you least expect it. The Light side was doomed to fall, there simply wasn't any other alternative. Aberforth Dumbledore had just about reached the end of his extremely long life.

And with his death, the Light side would fall apart.

Or so he and the Dark Lord had originally thought. Over the past few months as a spy, Harry had caught snippets of conversations and memories all revolving around a single topic - the Light weapon LOVE. Try as he may, Harry hadn't been able to uncover the _true_ origins and powers of said weapon. As far as he knew, it was some sort of magical device or weapon with enough power to destroy the Dark Lord. Harry's eyes narrowed in concentration as he quickened his pace. But, what was it?

L.O.V.E, that is.

Could it be nothing more than a hair-brain plot of Dumbledore's? Or was it something else? Harry sighed as he finally entered the Department of Mysteries. Well, he could only wait and find out.

* * *

**X**

* * *

"Code Red, I repeat, Code R-" the automatically projected voice was instantly silenced as the young man waved his wand idly in its direction. Moment later, a huge explosion rocked the foundations of the Ministry... 

The defense and control room had been destroyed.

"Mother Circe," Fudge whispered in horror, as he watched the Dark Heir blast apart their defenses without pause. A cold sweat trickled down his face, as he peaked out his window hopefully only to catch sight of a mass of black.

_Death Eaters._

The entire Ministry was surrounded. Fudge's fingers clenched painfully about his wand, as he forced himself to not panic. He was at least four stories above the Dark Heir and the rest of the Death Eaters... surely he could escape, right?

Maybe?

Probably?

He sighed. Highly doubtful was probably the word he was looking for. No matter how he looked at it, he was as dead as a doornail.

Once again, Fudge cursed Aberforth Dumbledore once again for placing such a dangerous item within _his_ ministry. He had shouted, screamed, and even, god-forbid, _begged_ the man to reconsider his decision, but that pompous fool had refused. Dumbledore believed that the so called 'weapon' would be safer here than at Hogwarts.

A smug look crossed Fudge's face. 'Serves the bastard right,' he thought nastily. 'I _told_ him that You-Know-Who or the Dark Heir would be able to steal it here.'

Crack.

Fudge froze, his beady little eyes darting towards his now splintering door. 'Dammit,' he cursed softly, as he all but threw himself at the window. Images of his wife and child flashed across his mind, as he pried furiously at the window frame.

It didn't budge.

"Reducto," he shouted, pointing his mahogany wand directly towards the window. Fudge cursed once again, as he tried to pull himself through the hole; damn, it was too small. "Reducto..." he repeated desperately, as he focused all his magic into the spell.

A jet of red light emerged from his wand, blasting a thicker hole through the magic-proof window. Fudge shook with fatigue and relief, as he pulled himself up onto the ledge...before he heard his door break down.

"Avada Ked..."

Fudge stared into those pitiless pair of ebony black eyes, before the jet of green light hit him straight on.

Mission Accomplished.

* * *

**X**

* * *

Harry peered cautiously about the room as he stepped onto the atrium. A thin wispy veil stood before him fluttering ever now and then. He could hear it, the voices from the past, present and future. Those sibilant hisses and whispered caressed him and held him prisoner within their grasp; Harry shook ever so slightly, as icy cold fingers traced lines down his skin. 

The Veil of Death.

A wry smile crossed his handsome face, causing his emerald green eyes to glow eerily. It seemed almost..._fitting_ that he, the Dark Heir, would have such a close affinity to Death. Rockwood, the Death Eater spy on the Ministry, had informed them in the past that only those who have sinned beyond words were drawn to the veil. There have been many speculations in the past about _where_ the veil lead to, but alas, no solid evidence had ever been procured. After all, no one who had entered had ever been able to return.

Harry's smile turned cold, as he came to a halt a mere foot away from the veil. His fingers teased the edges of the transparent veil. A hint of amusement crept into his eyes as he noticed that his entire right hand had turned ghostly white and was on the verge of disappearing. Yes...so his hypothesis had been correct.

The Veil of Death was perhaps the best yet most unexpected hiding place for the Light weapon L.O.V.E. Harry grinned at the irony, as he jerked the veil back in one swift move...

...and cursed.

A simple pale unadorned wooden wall stood before him. There was no weapon, no secret doors, no _nothing._ Harry's lips curled into a wordless snarl. They couldn't have been wrong! His father and he had spent months in advance researching the so called Veil of Death! Harry slammed his fist against the wall, only to hit...air?

Harry's emerald green eyes narrowed in confusion. Why... He blinked again, as the entire scene changed in one swift motion. He was no longer standing in front of an innocently blank wall; instead, he was standing in a particularly familiar bedroom...

"No, please, not Harry!" a woman screamed shrilly, as shrank away from the dark haired demon with ruby red eyes. "Leave him! _Please_, he is only a child!"

The dark man frowned. "Leave the child, girl, and I will let you live."

"No...not Harry."

All the while, Harry watched the scene with mounting confusion. What in the name of hell was going on! The red-head had an uncanny resemblance to his late mother, but...it couldn't have been her could it? His mother and father had _hated_ him since the day his power emerged; hated him for something that he couldn't control. A burning ember of hate grew in his stomach, as long-suppressed emotions flared onto the surface. May the gods be damned, he _hated_ that bloody bitch.

"Avada Keda-"

It was at this particular moment, Harry felt himself being...consumed? It felt like as if he was falling into a chasm of darkness; it felt like as if he was dying. Harry closed his eyes, giving in to the sweet song of death.

Only to find out that Death was not for one as evil as him.

Baby Harry's jaded emerald green eyes flared open with power, and almost a second later a jet of pure green light struck the baby on the forehead. Such a cut and curse should have killed for sure, but alas, things are not always as they seem. Especially when one Harry James Potter was concerned.

The Killing Curse reflected back upon the owner, shattering Lord Voldemort's soul and body.

It was at this very moment, the legend of our young boy hero was born. However, what the wizarding world did not see was the intelligent, calculating glance in the baby's jaded emerald green eyes. Always watching...waiting...until the perfect moment to strike.

Young Harry James Potter, the prized protegee of Lord Voldemort, had been given a second chance at life.

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-

A/N: Love or Hate? Dang, it seems like I'm updating alot of stories today. First Darkly Treacherous and now this. I'm also almost done with my Icy Destiny and another new fic that I wrote. sigh oh well, I hope you liked it. Don't forget to review! -


	2. Dark Beginnings

**Atrum Venum **

**By**: xxlostdreamerxz

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**Chapter 2: ****Dark Beginnings**

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Number 4 Privet Drive was but an ordinary house in an ordinary neighborhood, centered within the sprawls of suburbia. With its immaculate lawn and perfectly pruned hedges, the house appeared to glimmer with a sort of inner light. But alas, appearances were deceiving, for within a house that bespoke of order and conformity, lived a very strange lad. He had dark, messy hair that refused to lie flat, despite everything his relations had tried, and a pair of the most remarkable emerald green eyes. When he had been younger, random women would often come over and croon about how "adorable" and "sweet" he was...at least, that is, until they were pinned by a flat, frigid stare. They weren't sure what was _off_ about the boy, but the people who lived in Little Whinging quickly learned to heed their instincts.

The boy was not to be trifled with.

And after raising her sister's abnormal freakish spawn for seven long years, Petunia's fragile patience had finally snapped. It was one thing for _her_ to know that her nephew was a freak, but it was a completely different thing when the _whole community_ knew. In the first couple of years, she had tried everything to keep the little freak inside the house - threats, chores, pleads, bribes..._everything._ The boy had simply stood there, eying her with unveiled disgust...like as if _she_ was the freak. Petunia's thin, long fingers clenched into a fist at the memory. She couldn't control him since frankly, he was _that_ unnerving. Vernon had tried to beat the freakishness out of the boy _once_. She didn't know exactly what had happened once Vernon had entered that small, dark closet with his belt in hand, but she knew that it had been _bad._ Her husband had emerged an hour later, sobbing hysterically, with deep welts and self inflicted cuts across his entire body.

Her expression twisted with hate.

The boy had single-handedly destroyed her marriage. Vernon had become so frightened of the boy that he loathed coming home...choosing to spend his nights at seedy bars, drinking his hard-earned money away. Petunia couldn't remember the last time that she had truly _seen _her husband for more than a couple of minutes. Whenever he popped on home, it was to shower or for a fresh change of clothes. They rarely spoke and even then, it was awkwardly stilted, because both of them knew that it was because of _her_ that the _freak_ was still living under their roof. It made her furious and strangely nostalgic. When she and Vernon had gotten married, Petunia had always imagined having a child and raising him in a bright, orderly suburb like Little Whinging. It wasn't fair that, instead of having a son of their own, they had gotten her sister's _freak_ instead. And to make matters worse, Vernon refused to have children with her _until_ the freak left the house, claiming that it was simply too dangerous.

To make things even worse, the entire neighborhood _knew_ and gossiped about the Potter freak.

Thus, as his caretakers, Petunia and her family had become the targets of unflattering gossip and were essentially the pariah of the neighborhood.

_Enough was enough_.

It didn't matter to her that he was of her blood or that he was the only thing left of her sister's. Petunia was _done_ with it all this freakishness. So with that said, she plotted and planned and finally decided to take up a new hobby...bird-watching. From what she knew, the freaks tended to use owls and other avians to deliver letters; thus, all she needed to do was capture one of those blasted creatures and contact the utter _idiot_ who had deigned to leave her a baby on her doorstep. She knew that her nephew wouldn't accept being tossed out of the house; far from it, she could easily imagine those dark, emerald eyes glittered with barely restrained cruelty.

No. She needed _help_ to get him out.

The moment someone came to collect the boy, Petunia would officially wash her hands of him.

_Forever._

It had taken a few weeks of hard work before she had spotted an owl during the day. To her utmost surprise, the owl had taken up residence at Miss. Figg's house.

Though her lips curled with disgust, Petunia quickly moved to the door and began marching, with a single-minded determination towards her neighbor's house. _Witch._ The blasted Figg's woman was a _witch, a freak!_ It made her ill thinking that she and Vernon were living in such close proximity to such unnaturalness...and that they had almost chosen to raise a child here! Forcing herself to knock politely, she did her best to ignore the hoard of curious cats running around her feet as she heard the elderly woman shuffle through the house. She didn't know if the woman had been sent to keep an eye on her or what, but she was _done. _

_One way or another, Harry Potter was moving out today._

* * *

Ignorant of his aunt's plans, Harry had taken to wandering about the neighborhood while plotting his revenge. It had been seven long years since he had entered this realm and possessed his other self's body. And while he had, indeed, considered ridding himself of his so called extended 'family,' he had held back...

After all, he needed information before he could fully plan his take over.

In his world, his_ parents_ had never been attacked by the Dark Lord. They had successfully hidden under the Fidelius charm and their keeper, Sirius Black had been captured and…exterminated. However, his 'godfather' managed to keep the location of Potter Manor a secret to his death and thus, he and his parents had survived. They had raised him, as their pride and joy, for three whole years before_ it_ had emerged.

His dark power.

He had still been a child then, completely ignorant about the power that was steadily growing inside of him. His parents had_ hated _him for it, had hated him for something he couldn't control. They had tried to beat the darkness out of him. They had tried to spoil him. They tried everything under the sun to make their son into someone that he was not. And in the end, if they were brave enough to admit, they were the ones that had truly made him into the monster that he was.

The only one who had truly loved him…had been a family friend.

Albus Dumbledore, the relatively unknown brother of the famous Alberforth Dumbledore. The red-head had, upon seeing Lily and James' neglect, taken it upon himself to care for the child. He had played with him, sung him to sleep, read fairy tales to him late into the night. Albus was more than just a friend, he was a father in almost everything but name.

Well, that is, until he started to walk down the dark path…when he began to stray from the Light and the one man who had every cared about him. He had grown cynical with the Light. He had seen so much darkness hidden beneath the glossy surface of "good" and had begun to study the darker arts. And once he turned eight, he'd been captured by the Dark Lord and offered the position as heir. He didn't understand why Voldemort had chosen him. He did not know…and every time he asked, the Dark Lord would simply respond "because you're strong." In the end, he had chosen power and prestige over familial love. The Dark Lord was his idol now. Not Albus. No more.

Harry shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts.

He didn't understand how things could be so different here. He did not understand_ why_ the Dark Lord had targeted him nor how he had managed to survive the killing curse. To make matters worse, he didn't understand why Albus Dumbledore, the one man that he had always looked up to, had allowed him to be raised by a bunch of monsters. He wanted answers.

But in order to receive them, he knew that he needed to play his part well. He needed to appear as nothing more than a seven year old Muggle raised wizard. He needed to appear 'Light' and innocently curious about the world.

Harry shook his head tiredly. He knew that he hadn't even bothered trying to keep up the pretense around the Muggles. He knew that he _should_ have, but frankly could just couldn't bring himself to care.

After all, it wouldn't be that difficult to destroy the "evidence" if it came to it.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore frowned in distaste as he read the hastily penned letter from Arabella. He twiddled with his half-moon glasses as he attempted once again to sooth his anger. Goodness knows how a woman could say such horrible things about her own nephew! Especially given that she had raised said child from the tender age of one.

Perhaps Minerva had been correct?

Perhaps Harry Potter should not have been left with his Muggle relatives?

Dumbledore shook his head as he walked over to his fireplace and grabbed a handful of Floo Powder. With a fiercely determined glint in his eyes, he shouted "Privet Drive." He needed to investigate this situation in person. He needed to see whether he had made a mistake.

Dumbledore smiled slightly as the flames swallowed him whole. And besides, even if Arabella's report had been slightly exaggerated, he could at least check up and see how little Harry was doing…

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**TBC  
**


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